When I moved into my house I allowed my black thumb to purchase three supposedly “unkillable” houseplants.

I figured if I could keep them alive for a year I’d allow myself to purchase more, maybe even grow a flower outside.

My houseplants successfully survived more than an entire year.

Then I brought home a baby.

I am pleased to report that the baby is still very much alive and well.

The houseplants?

Um, well.

Not so much.

The entire last month has gone by in a blur of boobs, bottles, sweatpants, full arms and a full heart.

My parents visited last week and the aptly named Gramma Flower helped Addie plant my four big concrete planters. While we were at the nursery she used terms like “vinca” and “coleus.” All I heard was “blah blah blah you’ll feel really guilty if you kill all these beautiful flowers.”

So I am now attempting to keep five living things fed, watered and safe from the hungry jaws of fluffy widdle bunnies. (So maybe I only have to keep the flowers safe from the impending doom of the rabbits…but I read Bunnicula, those creatures are not to be trusted.)

Vivi is a kitty napper. Due to sheer force of will the child is unable to snooze for longer than 15 minutes at a time unless it is either A) right before bedtime or B) bedtime. Which isn’t horrible. But it sure does leave me feeling wholly unproductive at the end of the day. (Just ask the houseplants. Oh wait, you can’t. They’re very dead.)

She has started to smile (unless by the same sheer force of will she has very well timed gas) and I am pleased to report that she will officially cost her dad a lot more money and grief than previously planned with her giant gummy grin and full head of deliciously furry baby hair.

So I don’t want to have to admit this, but given that I’ve kind of got a reputation for being honest and something about the truth setting me free…here goes.

I am having a hard time.

Not emotionally…as in PPD…in fact there have been many moments over the last few weeks were I have held a screaming baby at 3 am and thought “I’m so glad I’m properly medicated this time.”

Yesterday was the first day I had to set her down and walk away. She was fed, she was clean, she was exhausted and very hard to please. Her name around these parts is sad baby, because sad she is.

There are a couple of moments during the day when she’s not sad. One of them being when she’s asleep (which isn’t all that often) and when she’s attached to my boob (which is so very, very often.) Don’t get me wrong, I love having her attached to my boob, I ADORE IT EVEN! But I still have the milk supply of a ferret meaning I have to supplement her somehow.

She decided long ago that she wasn’t having the SNS and syringe/cup feeding is also not her thing. So yes, I’ve been using bottles. It’s a very precise milky dance getting this baby fed. A sort of boob sandwich cocktail. Boob, bottle, boob. However today I joined the big leagues of team Low Milk Supply and added the Lact-Aid to my arsenal.

If you’ve ever used a Lact-Aid, or know someone who’s used a Lact-Aid then you’ll know that “Lact-Aid” is lactation speak for “Swear-Aid.” But alas, I want to nurse Vivi so badly that I am willing to do anything including taping tiny tubes full of milk to my nipples.

At this point (cover your ears lactivists) it’s not even about the health benefit, I’ve already raised one wicked smart and healthy progeny on formula alone. It’s not even about cost at this point either because I’m STILL having to buy formula on top of all these gadgets, herbs and medications (Speaking of medications, 9 pills three times a day with an additional two once a day. 29 pills. For serious. (For those of you nosy curious, fenugreek, More Milk Plus, Goat’s Rue and the one that starts with a D. I also have the tea.))

Nope, we’re to sheer willpower. I AM going to make this work. I AM going to get a full milk supply. I AM going to fill my baby’s belly all by myself and if not? I am going to move on to bottles knowing I did everything, EVERYTHING I could.

I have all the books. I obviously have all the supplements. I have all the gadgets. I have an IBCLC on speed dial, twitter and on email. I have an insane amount of knowledge of the human mammary system and I have a baby who latches like a champ, has the (relative) patience of a tiny baby saint and the lung capacity of Steven Tyler.

I thought keeping my house tidy while pregnant was hard, turns out it’s twice as hard while wearing a tiny baby with a fuzzy bobbly head, but the baby only sleeps when she’s being worn and I’m walking or when I’m sitting and she’s comfy.

I think she’s trying to tell me to kick back and relax. No one really needs clean underwear that bad.

Which is fiiiiiine. Her tinyness is a very limited time engagement.

But still. I’m very (mentally) tired. I lose it occasionally (sorry Cody.) I get a little short with Addie (sorry darling.) I sometimes heavy sigh at Vivi (it’s not you it’s me.)

Just because I waited so long for this little baby doesn’t make this stuff any easier, but it does make me appreciate it a little bit more because it’s just going so damn fast.